


Amazing Again

by enigma731



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Birthday Sex, Body Worship, Developing Relationship, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Steve Rogers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 22:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4281150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a game they’ve been playing for a few weeks now, circling one another, a strange sort of gambling in trust and intimacy.</p>
<p>“Open your presents,” says Natasha, reaching out to run her fingers across the smooth surface of the wrapping--red, but not quite <em>patriotic</em>, “and be a bit selfish for one night, Rogers.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing Again

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Soldier's Poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919979) by [enigma731](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731). 



> I meant to have this finished for the 4th but I ended up being a liiiittle too ~~drunk~~ busy. So you'll all just have to enjoy Steve's slightly-belated birthday sex.

Steve leaves the party sometime just after dusk, as another round of beers is being passed out and the group’s laughter is getting decidedly past tipsy. He’s pretty sure they won’t miss him--after all, it’s not exactly like they _need_ him to continue getting drunk. If he’s being honest, large parties still make him feel like he’s been trotted out to perform, much as he admires Sam’s initiative in throwing a celebration for everyone at the Academy. Team bonding is important, Steve knows, so he isn’t about to argue. He just isn’t going to stay all night, either. 

Fireworks will probably be starting soon, he thinks, but he swallows down the habitual tinge of guilt, changes into pajamas as soon as he gets back to his quarters and fires up Netflix. He’s scrolling through the menus, trying to find something that might fill the familiar hollow feeling in his chest, when the knock comes. 

He knows it’s Natasha because he didn’t hear any footsteps approaching, not even with the echoey hallway and thin walls that make their new facility’s living space feel too much like the barracks he remembers. He also knows it’s her by the sound of her knock, the way she uses just the backs of her knuckles like it might be some sort of code for him. Steve smiles to himself. He probably ought to be expecting it, really. He probably ought to know better than to think he’d be able to escape his own party without her noticing.

“Hi,” says Steve, when he opens the door. A moment ago he thought he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening alone, but he can’t deny the ball of anticipation that settles in the pit of his stomach at finding her here, leaning against his doorframe like there’s nothing else happening in the world right now.

Natasha gives him the crooked smile he’s come to recognize and cherish, and holds out two wrapped packages. “Happy birthday.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, taking the packages from her and stepping back to usher her inside. He’s well past the point of feeling awkward with her in his space; she’s practically become regular fixture here over the past month and a half. “Thought that’s what the party was for.”

“No,” says Natasha, perching on the edge of his couch. “And you know it, too. Nice try, though.” The red of her hair and the royal blue of the tank top she’s wearing look radiant against the tan of the cushions, and Steve is struck by the image, almost breathless.

“Then what,” he asks, “is everyone out there drinking for?” It’s a game they’ve been playing for a few weeks now, circling one another, a strange sort of gambling in trust and intimacy.

“Pretty sure it was you,” she answers, looking up at him through her eyelashes, her lips still curved in that damn crooked grin, “who said that we were celebrating teamwork. And something about American ideals.”

“Damn,” says Steve, moving to sit beside her. “Here I was hoping that maybe nobody was listening.”

“Open your presents,” says Natasha, reaching out to run her fingers across the smooth surface of the wrapping--red, but not quite _patriotic_ , “and be a bit selfish for one night, Rogers.”

He snorts softly and gives her a teasing salute before using the edge of his thumbnail to slit the tape on one edge of the smaller package, sliding the paper off intact. The gift inside is a new set of charcoal pencils--nice ones, the same brand as the last set he bought for himself, wore down to nubs, and hasn’t taken the time to replace yet.

“Natasha,” he murmurs, looking up at her, caught off guard by the thoughtfulness of the gift. Of course he _shouldn’t_ be surprised that she’s noticed the things he likes, but there’s a large part of him that’s never been good at accepting that quality in the people closest to him.

“Open the other one,” she answers, taking the used paper from him and setting it on the end table beside the couch.

Steve holds her gaze for one more second, his heart suddenly beating very fast against his ribcage, and then turns to the larger package still resting in his lap. He can’t help noticing the way his fingers shake as he peels back the wrapping to reveal a new sketch book. It’s bound with rich leather, the date and year embossed on the cover like she knows, somehow, that the act of drawing still sends him sinking into the past sometimes, that he needs the reminder. 

“You do so much for the world,” says Natasha, before he’s managed to come up with any words in response. “I want you to remember to do things for yourself.”

“Thank you,” he tells her, because there really isn’t any way to articulate all the things he’s feeling. 

He meets her gaze again, holds it, realizes suddenly that sometime over the past year, he’s learned how to read her better than pretty much anyone else. She’s smiling brighter than he’s seen in weeks, but there’s a longing in her eyes too, and a hint of challenge. 

Steve takes a breath, but his hand isn’t shaking anymore as he reaches out to trace the line of her jaw, leans in and kisses her. She makes a soft appreciative sound against his lips, rests her own hand against the back of his neck to keep him close. 

“What if,” Steve asks, when she breaks the kiss for air, “I want to take this into the bedroom?”

She quirks an eyebrow, taps his lips with a fingertip. “Really? That’s how you’re going to ask me for sex? You’re almost a hundred years old, you know.”

Steve gives her a look of mock indignation, leans back to square his shoulders and clear his throat. “Natasha Romanoff. It’s my birthday, and I think we should fuck.”

She feigns shock, clapping a hand to her mouth theatrically. “Steve! What would Stark say about that kind of language?”

“Fuck Stark,” Steve says gleefully, moving his gifts from his lap to the coffee table. 

Natasha laughs openly at that, doesn’t even try to hide her delight. “I thought you were fucking me.”

“I am.” He moves quickly but carefully, scooping her into his arms and getting to his feet. She makes a noise of surprise but goes along with it eagerly, shifting to wrap an arm around his neck for the few steps it takes to reach the bedroom. 

Steve sets her down carefully and pulls his shirt over his head. Only then does he remember that he’s wearing pajamas, but he just shrugs, slides pants and underwear down his hips and lets them fall in a pile of plaid and pin stripes on the floor. When he looks up again, Natasha’s shed her own clothes, and is eyeing him with equal parts appreciation and expectancy.

A year ago, Steve thinks, this would have filled him with apprehension, would have had him questioning his every move. Would have had him feeling selfish in a way that bordered on inexcusable. Now, he realizes, all he feels is anticipation, and a heady sense of joy. 

“Did you want something?” he asks Natasha, allowing himself a nice long look at her body--which, yes, is unsurprisingly still every bit as stunning as it was a few months ago. 

She answers by leaning up to kiss him again, a little rough and a little dirty. Natasha wraps an arm around his waist, steps in closer so that her body is flush against his. Steve groans against her mouth, a thrill running through him at the thought that she must be able to feels his cock hardening against her stomach. 

She’s grinning when she breaks away again, her palm still warm against his hip. “Lie down.”

Steve does as he’s told, knows better than to question an order like that. He’s hyper aware of every sensation as he stretches out, the bed spread cool against his back, a thin sheen of sweat already drying on his skin. His cock is practically aching for her touch now, and he can’t resist squirming a little under the heat of her gaze.

“Good,” says Natasha, as she climbs onto the bed. She taps his thigh lightly, motions for him to reposition. 

Steve does as he’s shown, lets her settle between his legs. He almost misses what she’s doing as she spits into her palm, gets a hand around his dick and gives him a couple of strokes that get his hips lifting clear off the mattress in response.

“God damn,” he groans, and she laughs again. 

“You want my mouth?” asks Natasha, and he almost misses the question, because she’s still got her fingers on his cock, is still working his body in ways he can’t believe she’s learned with the few times they’ve done this.

“What?” he gasps, because part of him is still not sure that he’s heard her entirely right.

“My mouth,” she repeats, stilling her hand and smiling sweetly at him. “On your cock. Do you want that?”

Steve nods, dimly aware that the movement is probably edging toward frantic. The silky heat of her mouth on his dick tears an actual shout from his throat, and he has the fleeting thought that it’s a good thing everyone else is outside drinking right now. He twists his hands in the edges of the sheets as she bobs her head, tries to remember to keep his body still for her. It’s impossible not to lose himself, though, his awareness tunneling inward until there’s nothing left but her mouth, her fingers, and the tight heat of his orgasm beginning to pool between his hips.

“Wait,” Steve pants, struggling to sit up and rest a hand on the top of her head, because he doesn’t want this to be over so soon. 

Natasha pulls away and looks up at him with hunger in her eyes, quickly crawls up his body to kiss his lips again. Steve wraps an arm around her shoulders and carefully rolls them over, studying her face for a moment before leaning in to press a line of soft kisses across her clavicle, down over the swell of her breast before laving his tongue over her nipple. 

“ _Yes,_ ” she hisses, shivering. 

“Good?” asks Steve. She nods, and he sits back so he can enjoy the view of her body. There’s a fresh bruise on her left hip, making the familiar old scar there stand out in even sharper contrast. He runs the pad of his thumb across the unusually smooth skin there, knowing the memory that it holds. There’s another scar on her right side, a thin jagged line just below her breast, and Steve bends to kiss it gently. 

“What are you doing?” asks Natasha, her voice uncharacteristically rough, and he looks up again, gives her a gentle smile.

“Admiring you.”

That earns him a full-on shudder, which sends a rush of something like awe through him. He slips a hand down between her legs, finds her clit with the pad of his thumb. _He_ remembers what she likes now too, knows to start slowly, gradually build up speed and friction. She groans and arches her back, rocks her hips up to meet him.

“Do you have any idea?” he asks softly, bending his head forward to work his lips over every little imperfect part of her body--every scar, every freckle, every faded stretch mark--before he looks up at her again. “Any idea how special you are?”

Her face crumples at that and for a terrible instant, Steve is sure he’s said the wrong thing. But then she sucks in a shaky breath, touches his cheek, and suddenly he recognizes the emotion for what it is--surprise-- _still_ \--at being told her worth. 

She rolls them over again wordlessly, reaches into the drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a condom, waiting for his nod before she tears it open and puts it on him. 

Steve grins at her as he takes hold of her hips, notices for a fleeting moment the contrast of his skin against hers. But then she’s sinking down onto him, and he’s moving with her, mind empty of everything but the way it feels to be with her, all of the gratitude, and love, and admiration he wants to show her.. Somehow he manages to get his fingers on her clit again, kisses her to drink in the sound that she makes in response. She throws her head back, moving with abandon, hair flying wildly around her face. 

Natasha is quiet when she comes, but Steve’s learned to expect that by now, running a hand over her back as her muscles spasm around him. Only then does he allow his own control to splinter, thrusts twice more before orgasm rips through him, his fingers clutching at her shoulders

“Fuck,” she breathes, shifting off of him so she can curl into his side. She doesn’t say anything else, though he can still feel the importance of it all hanging in the air between them. 

Steve tosses the condom into the trash and wraps an arm around her shoulders, no longer surprised by the fact that she wants this closeness. Outside, he hears the familiar whistle of fireworks followed by the far-off booms, the light in his window chasing shadows across the floor. 

“Sad you’re missing that?” asks Natasha, looking in the direction of the noise.

He just shakes his head. “No. Turns out the party’s much better in here.”

Steve shifts just a bit, pulling her closer as he watches the colors dance in the sky.


End file.
